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‘How many are we expecting, in total?’ she asks. ‘So I can make sure we’ve got the bedrooms right?’
‘Not sure,’ says Tatiana. And, after a little bit, adds an adolescent, ‘Sorree.’
Mercedes says nothing.
‘Three, I think,’ she says eventually. ‘And Daddy, obviously. But you know what he’s like. He never passes on information one might actually need.’
Like father, like daughter.
‘Maybe four,’ she says. ‘Better allow for four.’
‘I shall have all the bedrooms ready,’ she says. ‘Any dietary requirements?’
‘Oh, yes. Tell – what’s his name?’
She waits to hear who ‘he’ is.
‘Chef,’ says Tatiana impatiently.
‘Roberto,’ she says.
‘Right. Well, small party Friday night. The usual pre-Stag get-together.’
Ugh. She knows what that means. Still, a night off for all the house staff. So that’s … she can’t tot up the numbers in her head. ‘How many?’ she asks.
‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ snaps Tatiana. Thinks better of it. ‘Sorry, darling. I’m under the cosh and it’s making me terribly stressed. Trying to get packed to fly to Rome tomorrow, and I’ve literally no one to help me.’
You’restressed. ‘I’m sorry,’ Mercedes soothes as she scribbles everything she can recall onto the notepad that lives on her desk. She’s fairly confident that her eight-strong New York counterparts will rally round to put Tatiana’s clothes in a suitcase. Sometimes her head swims at the thought of all the people on Matthew Meade’s payroll. The number of people around the world who worry every day about simply maintaining the supplies of paper in their toilets.
‘And of course, we’ll all be at Giancarlo’s on Saturday.’
Giancarlo. She’ll never get used to the casual way the Meades refer to the duke. It’s only two generations since the peasants had to turn their faces to the wall when his ancestors passed by.
The island has been in a frenzy of preparation all through July. The duke turns seventy this year, and the castle will host a bal masqué that is billed, according to the magazines that drop regularly through the door, as the party of the year. The vineyards look like painted canvas backdrops, the veal calves have been fattened on a diet of milk, the house fronts in Kastellana Town have had new coats of paint. According to Hello! magazine, La Kastellana is the chicest of the chic this year. The New Capri at last.
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Oh, Mercy,’ says Tatiana, ‘I can’t wait to see you. We must have a good old gossip.’
‘I’ll make sure there’s a lovely bath ready for you when you arrive,’ she replies, ‘and a nice cold drink.’ She won’t actually keep running baths in anticipation. The staff at the helipad call ahead when VIPs land.
‘Oh, God, you’re an angel,’ says Tatiana, and rings off.
